


Now

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 23:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11496690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Finrod’s fallen asleep in the valley with Fingolfin.





	Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for auniverseforgotten’s “15(Valley) [...] with Fingolfin/Finrod” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3). (Titled because I was listening to [Not Now but Soon by Imogen Heap](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQRqaq3AwiI))
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this

Findaráto is flying high amongst the clouds he’d been watching, his fingers now drifting through the white tufts that looked so very far away. He feels like a bird, or perhaps a Maia, one full of song and joy, free to do nothing but _soar_ , until a gentle kiss is pressed against his forehead. Then soft words are whispering into his ear, asking him back down to the earth. He smiles, tempted: the sky is wondrous, but the owner of the voice is the owner of his heart. And he’s always obeyed it. He allows himself to fall, and as the blue sea rushes past him, his eyes flutter open.

And he’s free of his dream, awake again, looking up at Ñolofinwë’s handsome face.

At first, Findaráto can do nothing. When his lips part, they’re forced into a yawn, his eyes closing again for it. Then he watches his uncle through heavy lashes, and he checks the clouds above, seeing how very _different_ they are from when he first fell asleep. Either Eönwë has been at play again, or Findaráto slept longer than he meant to.

He hadn’t meant to sleep _at all_ , and he flushes for that, murmuring, “I am sorry.”

“I do not think you have ever had true cause to apologize in all your life,” Ñolofinwë returns, voice deep and soothing. His smile is gentle, kind, and his lap is absurdly comfy. Findaráto’s nestled in it, the rest of his body curled half to the side atop their picnic blanket. The green hills of the valley roll all about them, dipping down into this one trail, lush and full of flowers that bloom around the edges of their seat. Ñolofinwë still has one in his hair, a golden blossom with curled petals, that Findaráto placed in when they first sat down. Then they kissed, then they ate, and then Findaráto lay his head in Ñolofinwë’s lap to cherish this: one of the few moments they can manage _alone_ , far from all the hustle and bustle of their over-large but loving family.

And Findaráto wasted most of that, it seems, by allowing his eyes to close, and now surely they must be getting back. Around another yawn, he asks, “How long have I been asleep?”

“A time,” Ñolofinwë tells him, which seems to say to Findaráto: _longer than you should have, but I do not mind._ He knows his uncle’s voice too much, even when it’s left unspoken. 

He finally forces himself to sit up, even though he’s grown stiff, and it’s always a pleasure to be _touching_ Ñolofinwë in any way he can. He dreams best when he falls asleep with his arms tight around Ñolofinwë’s middle, or Ñolofinwë’s arms around him, but it seems touching anywhere works just as well. As Findaráto straightens, he mutters, “I am still sorry for ruining our picnic.”

“You did no such thing,” Ñolofinwë laughs. They’d already eaten, but there was still much they could’ve done. “This valley is as lovely a place as any to spend time, and I enjoyed watching you rest whilst I listened to the birds.” His eyes gleam, and after a pause, he adds, “Perhaps _I_ should apologize. I could have woken you sooner, but you were too beautiful to disturb.”

“And I have grown less beautiful now?” Findaráto teases, only to pause after lifting his hand to finger-comb back his hair. He finds it now twisted in a thick braid, one he didn’t come with, and he pulls it over his shoulder to eye his uncle’s handiwork. It’s littered with flowers. He lifts a brow at Ñolofinwë; this is proof he slept too long.

“You are always beautiful,” Ñolofinwë smoothly returns, “and I was not bored, if that is what you think, but simple enamoured with your silken locks, and I would have taken any excuse to run my fingers through them.”

Findaráto grins. He can feel his face actually sore from it, because Ñolofinwë makes him do it so much, so strongly: no one brings him joy like his favourite uncle. Most will say that Curufinwë is the great one, but Findaráto knows the truth. Ñolofinwë is the grandest elf in all of Valinor, and he deserves a dozen lovers, none of which should fall asleep on him. 

Perhaps Ñolofinwë can see Findaráto’s trouble, because he leans over to press a chaste kiss to Findaráto’s lips, like forcing forgiveness. Indeed, it puts Findaráto’s failings farther from his mind: he gets swept up in leaning in and savouring the taste of wine still lingering on Ñolofinwë’s lips. 

When they apart, Findaráto sighs, “I wish we did not have to go home.”

“Perhaps we do not,” Ñolofinwë suggests.

But Findaráto knows: “You are too well-loved for that. You are not mine alone, and I will not hoard you.”

“If you insists,” Ñolofinwë chuckles, “But only because I know Findekáno wished to spar with you, and you are just as beloved, and I would not cage you either. ...But that does not mean that we cannot return here when we may.”

“And I will remain awake the entire time,” Findaráto promises, “no matter how pretty the sky.”

Ñolofinwë laughs, pecks his cheek, and then stands with one hand held in offering.


End file.
